


Here Where It’s Warm (Here Where It’s Safe)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Samfro Week, Samfro Week Winter 2019, Snowed In Prompt, sleeping, soft, they’re just so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21819109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: There’s work to be done, but Sam would much rather stay right where he is.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 3
Kudos: 58





	Here Where It’s Warm (Here Where It’s Safe)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Illegible_Scribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble) in the [Winter_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Winter_2019) collection. 



> had this in the backlog for a few days and eventually gotten round to posting it. not one of my best but hopefully any readers enjoy it x

The snow had started during the night; when the world was at its very darkest and the light of the stars was swallowed by thick, swirling clouds.

At first, only the gentle sweep of snowflakes had began to fall, dusting the Shire with a thin layer of white. It had simply disappeared, however, for there was simply not enough for it to settle; but still it had continued to fall.

It had grown colder under the sheet of black sky, the snow falling harder, growing larger and heavier until soon they were great, fat snowflakes; ones that had been tugged and pulled and pushed by blistering winds, transforming into whirlwinds of infallible white.

It was only with the arrival of early morning, when the wind had yet to die down down and the snow still fell thick and heavy, that Sam blearily opened his eyes. He had been awoken by a particularly strong gust of wind that had rattled Bag End’s windows and howled through the morning sky in a furious and powerful torrent that seemed to scream out in a savage cry across all the Shire. He had never been too fond of loud winds, for they seemed to engulf everything in their fearful grasp; and with them Sam had always felt an inescapable dread – a sense of unrest that can’t be placed.

Sam shifts slightly, still not quite ready to get out of bed. It’s so warm, so comfortable, and he’s reluctant to leave the cocoon of blankets and heat that has been made and abandon it for the chilled world outside.

Besides, even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could leave the warmth of their bed – not without waking Frodo, that is.

They’d shifted about in their sleep; (as they so commonly do) moved so Sam’s arm rests underneath Frodo, with Frodo’s head snuggled underneath Sam’s chin, his face pushed into the dip of his collarbone.

It’s not the most comfortable of positions, really. Sam’s arm has gone numb and there’s a strange, almost painful tingling sensation in his fingers – a clear sign of pins and needles. Also, in this position, Sam’s nose is tucked against the soft curls of Frodo’s dark hair, and it tickles. Sam fights the urge to sneeze.

Yet, regardless of comfort, it’s _nice._ They always fall asleep near one another, whether it’s hands held together and fingers intertwined in the stifling heat of summer, or the close embraces of the colder months, like now, when they desperately search for comfort in each other’s natural warmth. But no matter how close they are to one another when sleep claims them, any distance between them disappears as they join the land of the dreams, when they are taken amongst their deepest desires and fears and join the place in their minds where anything is possible. And, even when in a world where the inconceivable can take place, they are always seeking one another’s comfort. They are always nearer, closer, held against one another and lost in an endless embrace. Always; they wake up besides one another. Always, they are together. 

Of course, he could move. Shift about a bit, start working on breakfast, do some of the easier household chores, _get up._

But, even if half his body has gone numb and he his nose itches and there’s a crick in his neck that he _knows_ will bother him later, he would much rather stay here, wrapped around Frodo with their legs intertwined and his deep breaths warm on his bare skin.

Had he looked outside the bedroom window, he would have seen the snow that had piled high enough to rise above the windowsill. But it wasn’t long before his breathing evened out, became long and deep and he returned to sleep once more, his arms wrapped tightly about Frodo.

———

The next time Sam wakes up, it is when his drowsiness has vanished and his body, so used to early mornings, finds itself restless and longing for something to do.

The first thing he notices, as it usually is, is the warm figure besides him. Frodo sleeps peacefully, his eyelashes dark contrast against his pale cheeks, flushed a healthy pink, and his skin is smooth, unblemished. He’s slender, svelte, made of long lines and corners that stir something deep in Sam’s stomach. Soft skin, silky smooth and warm. Pale and luminous in the shadows of the bedroom, washed over by the filter of sunlight.

He looks ethereal. Something not of this earth.

Sam has heard the rumours about the Tooks; (for there is Tookish blood in Frodo; the sharpness of his cheekbones and the point of his nose are some of the clearest signs) the whispered stories that they are from elvish blood. Not all hobbit, exotic and unique in a way that no others seem to be.

Sam can certainly see it, that elvish beauty. But Sam has seen the pictures in Frodo’s books, seen their language and writing, seen pieces of their culture under the most glorious light of Bag End’s warming fires; yet their grace is of no comparison to that of Frodo.

For their ethereal qualities, their slender eyes and pointed ears, their quiet movements, their perfection, skin clear and unmarred, made from reflections of moonlight, for their glory, creatures of unimaginable beauty; they still could not hold a candle to the light within Frodo.

He is made from the sky itself. The darkness of night and the light of stars envy his beauty. They desperately wish they could be an inch as beautiful as this sleeping figure, the enigmatic master of Bag End.

These are thoughts that Sam has grown familiar with, this poetic waxing that his father would have called mindless drivel. (he’d always been opposed to Sam’s reading and writing lessons, said it were reaching above one’s station. What could a lad like him need reading and writing for?) He can’t stop himself though. This is simply how he feels when he is besides Frodo, the one he loves the most.

There’s a deep sigh that suddenly puffs out from Frodo’s lips. He shifts slightly, snuggling further into Sam’s warmth before pulling back, eyes half lidded and sleepy. “Good morning, love.” He whispers, voice rough and deep, something which sends a shock of warmth into Sam’s stomach. “Morning, m’dear.” He replies, just as thickly.

Frodo curls into him, his nose resting under Sam’s jaw and his fingers working magic on his skin. He wants to stay here forever, but he knows that, although he wishes he didn’t, he really has to get up.

“Sorry, m’dear, but the garden won’t look after itself.” He half heartedly murmurs, thoughts temporarily sidetracked as Frodo’s lips brush against a particularly sensitive part of his neck.

“Do you really need to be out there, Sam? Surely there’s not much to be done at this time of year… besides…” he trails off, before Sam feels a sharp nip against his collarbone. It’s soothed instantly with a soft kiss, but there’s a burst of pleasure that burns through Sam’s blood that really shouldn’t be ignored…

But he does need to go outside and get to work. It’s not much. It shouldn’t take too long. Once he’s done (for he is certain that, with the memories of Frodo’s lingering kisses, the work will not take long at all) he can return, and – if Frodo so wishes it – they can spend the rest of the day curled under these blankets; hopefully doing more than just sleep.

He just needs a few minutes in the garden. He’ll regret it tomorrow, if he does not show.

“Sorry, Frodo.” Sighing deeply, he gets up to move, ignoring Frodo’s mumbled grumblings of ‘those stubborn Gamgees’.

As he rises, however, something catches his eye that stops him in his tracks.

“What? Sam? What is it?”

And Sam, despite himself, chuckles. Looking up at him with furrowed brows, Frodo shakes his head. “Strange hobbit.” He says. “What’s so funny?”

With another laugh, Sam brings his arms around Frodo’s waist, pulling that lithe body against his own. “Don’t worry yourself none, m’dear. I’m jus’ havin’ second thoughts. I think the garden can wait.”

Sam’s lips are on Frodo’s, rough and insistent and needy. Hands burn against heated skin, touches and caresses all ablaze in an uncontrollable surge of fire.

If Frodo were to tear his eyes away from Sam’s talented mouth; (that was currently doing _wonderful_ things down below) he would have seen the snow piled high above the window.

But then Sam moves his head slightly, shifting position, and all other forms of coherent thoughts are banished from Frodo’s mind.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly I’m so excited for Christmas so writing this was really fun. I’ve followed prompts before but never for so many words, so I hope this was okay x


End file.
